Weiß Schrecken
by Skysky
Summary: Stuck alone on a observation mission, Omi finds himself in an unexpected situation when an old enemy appears. Now Youji has to deal with the aftermath. (shounen-ai hints in later chapters) *chapter six uploaded*
1. Überrumpeltem

Weiß Schrecken

> **Disclaimer:** Weiß Kreuz and all associated and registered trademarks are copyright Project Weiß and associated firms. In the writing of this fanfiction I am making no claim or stake in the profits of it. In other words, I don't own these sexy bishounen, and I don't intent to. Get it? Got it? Good.   
  
**Weiß Schrecken**   
  
_Chapter One: Überrumpeltem_   
  
--------------------   
  
A smothering blanket of dark grey covered the skies of Tokyo, giving ominous warning of the poor weather that was to follow. Those few that were wandering in the early evening's sparse light moved to take cover as the foreboding rumble of thunder cut through the air, following the trace patterns of lightening that arced across the base of the shadowed clouds. One could easily see that the approaching storm was not going to be pleasant, thus logic dictated that one should remain inside, or head for cover. Yet, logic is a fickle thing, able to be shoved aside for more important matters. And one such matter was keeping a young soul out in the still air that was giving further warning to the mistemperment of nature.   
  
Stretched out on the hard, patterned roof of a long condemned hotel, Tsukiyono Omi let out an exasperated sigh, deep sapphire eyes watching the apartment building across the street, specifically the dark windows of the penthouse floor. Watching as he had been watching for the past six hours. Watching well beyond his shift of stake out duty; Youji had been due to relieve him two hours previous. But there had been naught a word from the playboy, thus leaving the young assassin to extend his own shift to cover the other's absence.   
  
Rolling over onto his back, the teen stretched out his body, pausing to stare at the dark clouds hanging above him. This was not pleasant, and it didn't look to be getting any better. Weiß had received a simple mission: find and kill the leader of a massive underground drug ring. Finding the man had proved simple enough; at least, finding where he lived had been. The problem was that the bastard was rarely home. Thus the four of them had decided to pull shifts to watch his apartment; when and if the target appeared, they could move in and make the kill before he left again. Simple, really. They had been camped out, so to speak, for three days so far with no sign of the target. It was getting boring and frustrating.   
  
Twisting back to be laying on his stomach again, the youngest of the Weiß assassins propped his elbow on the surface below him and rested his chin on his palm. "So boring!" he complained to the open air. "And now Youji-kun is beyond late, leaving me with all the work. Again. These things are never fair. Moooou, what could go worse?"   
  
One thing the youth had never learned, it seemed, was that tempting fate was a bad idea. In response to his request, the skies opened up, dropping sheet after sheet of driving rain onto the world below it.   
  
"Of course..." Shrugging the hood of his jacket up to cover his hair, Omi let out another sigh. Figured. Just his luck that there would be a storm during HIS extended watch. He'd end up soaked, and Youji would show up for the last hour, most likely, and say something light to shrug it all off. Thus, the kid would get stuck with all the work, as usual, while the playboy took all the glory. It was an odd pattern that seemed to dominate Weiß.   
  
"Baka ne." Muttering the words under his breath, Omi also knew he could never get mad at the others for it, especially not Youji. To start, he didn't often mind doing most of the work alone; it kept him busy, which was something he liked being. Then there was the matter of efficiency; by far, he was more actively observant than Youji ever was. The playboy always looked so sleepy, capable of missing the most pressing of details; of course, he was more observant than he seemed, his appearance just suggested otherwise. Third, this was a to be expected occurrence. Youji and keeping to a schedule didn't often match too well. The only thing the blond could manage to meet were the times set to pick up his dates. Beyond that, all of Weiß had given up on him ever being on time. It just... didn't happen.   
  
Omi was about to head to a lower level to get some cover from the rain, ready to sacrifice his perfect view point for the sake of staying dry, when the lights of the penthouse suite turning on caught his attention. "Nani..." Peering at the windows, he could make out a silhouette of a human behind the panes. "The target!" Focused intently on the penthouse, the teen was unaware of the figure slowly approaching him from behind.   
  
*   
  
A pretty face. Indeed, she had such a pretty face. Youji had decided to linger and chat with the beauty that had graced Koneko's floor just before closing. His smooth words had even earned him a date with the sensual goddess. The next night, at precisely seven o'clock, we was going to be graced again with the teal-haired beauty. Maybe he would even ask her name at that time. Maybe. After all, he had so many girlfriends already, it would be impossible for him to learn the name of yet another one. Ah, how tough the life of a playboy was.   
  
Taking a tight corner, his Roadster handling it easily, the blond glanced down at his watch. Mou! Omi was going to kill him; more than two hours late for his watch on the target's place. Was it his fault that and absolute angel had decided to talk for a long while with him? Shaking his head, Youji smiled, not the bright style of smile Omi usually wore, but the hidden knowledge one he preferred. The kid would understand, he always did. Of all of Weiß, the genki teen was the most understanding of them all. A real spark of light in the darkness of the world. Personally, Youji couldn't understand how he did it. Wouldn't it be awfully tiring to be that happy and energetic all the time? Mah! He barely survived on his regime of sleeping lots and sleeping late. That kind of bouncing energy was entirely out of the question.   
  
Digging his black and white cell phone out of his coat pocket, Youji flipped it on, quickly dialing the number of Omi's own cell. Might as well let the kid know he was coming, that way the teen could prepare his lecture and get it over with quickly. Bringing the phone to rest against his ear, the playboy sighed and took another corner easily, waiting for the other to pick up.   
  
*   
  
Trying to gauge the distance and angle from his position on the roof, despite the driving rain, Omi sighed. He'd need his compound bow for the shot, and all he had was his hunting bow. It looked like he'd have to go into the penthouse itself to complete the mission. Well, at least there was a positive or two about this. He could get out of the rain and could take care of the target at the same time. This was good; it would mean no more late, late watches that kept him from being on time to school. Smiling and keeping that thought in mind, the teen was about to get up when the distinct sound of his cell phone ringing cut through the air.   
  
"Mooou!" he exclaimed, digging it out. "Who could be calling?" Pulling off one of his gloves, his now bared hand flipped open the phone as he raised it to his ear. "Moshi moshi?"   
  
There was little more he could say before a gloved hand clamped over his mouth, a sudden weight falling on the small of his back to keep him pinned to the ground. Eyes widening in surprise, Omi dropped the phone, a muffled yell trying to emerge.   
  
*   
  
Pulling into a slim parking space, Youji pulled the parking brake of his car up before shutting the ignition off, letting the engine die in the rain. Rain, of course; it would be his Roadster that got caught in the rain. The ringing in his ear died and the playboy heard the familiar and bright voice of Bombay on the other end. "Oiya, Omi, it's Youji," he said. "I'm running a bit late, demo..." About to go into his excusive speech, the blond paused, hearing something that sounded like a yell and then the distinct thump of the phone being dropped. "Omi?" Listening intently, the assassin was able to pick out the faint sounds of a struggle, followed by another thumping sound, which ended the previous scuffle of noises. That could only mean whatever fight had been going on had ended. "Omi! Daijoubu?"   
  
*   
  
How he had avoided being knocked unconscious by the sharp blow to his head was an unknown miracle. But staying awake was doing little to help Omi's situation. Whoever his attacker was, they were heavy, and currently straddling his back to keep his body on the ground. And strong, as the pain at the back of his head was informing him. Still trying to get free, though his actions were more sluggish than before, Omi tried to pull free the hand blocking his mouth and voice so that he could shout a warning to whoever it was that had called him.   
  
_//I would remain still if I were you. Wouldn't want another strike to your pretty head, ja?//_   
  
Omi froze as the nasal voice invaded his mind, the Japanese words overlaid with a strong German accent. There was no question who his attacker was now. Schuldich. The German telepath of Schwarz. Damn. Knowing that did even less to help the teen's situation, only adding a thousand questions and exclamations in his head.   
  
_//Mein Gott, shut up! You think too loud, Kätzchen.//_   
  
The mental complaint was followed by a sharp pain as the German's fist again connected with the back of his skull, an attempt to shut him up further. His vision greying from the strike, Omi tried to focus on his dropped phone. If he could grab that, he could call for help. However, a gloved hand that was not his own descended first, picking up the still connected device. The world before him blurring, Omi's head dropped to the ground, drops of rain dancing over his skin.   
  
A throaty chuckle cut through the oddly silenced air as the German listened to the voice on the other end. "Sorry, but Omi is not in right now," Schuldich announced all too cheerily. "If you leave your name and number, I'm sure he'll get back to you. If he survives, ja?" Another bit of nasal laughter carried to the youth as his world blacked out, dropping him into darkness.   
  
*   
  
The world could have dropped out from beneath him and Youji would not have noticed. "Schuldich!" he spat out, anger clearly haunting his voice. Anger for the telepath that seemed so exclusively bent on screwing with Weiß and destroying the four assassins. Anger for the man who had already caused so much pain to the youngest of the assassins. Anger for the man who was currently up on the roof with said genki teen. Damnit! "Get the hell away from Omi!"   
  
"Ma, ma, that would ruin my game though," came the reply, followed by more soft laughter. "Sorry, but round one is mine. I'll see you in round two, ja?" There was the muffled click that signaled the end of the phone call.   
  
Letting loose a string of curses, Youji quickly left his vehicle, running into the condemned building Weiß had been using as a stake out point. The stairs to the roof were taken two, and sometimes three, at a time. The playboy lost track of the number of levels he ascended, only intent on reaching the top and helping his team member. His phone was dropped somewhere along the way, the blond deciding to free up his hands to use his wire, should he run into Schuldich on the way up. Yet, that man's catlike abilities were known to him, and the playboy could only figure the telepath had a less obvious escape route planned out.   
  
Bursting onto the roof, Youji paid little heed as the pouring rain again worked its way into his clothing and hair, sticking both to his lanky frame as he searched out Bombay's position. Finding it, all he could see was the youth's phone, hunting bow, and what he could only assumed to be his entire carried collection of darts, most likely removed to keep him weaponless. Wherever he was.   
  
"Omi?!" His words echoed and were swallowed by a loud crash of thunder. Damnit! The kid was gone without a trace, save the words and abandoned weapons. And during his own watch, damnit. He should have been the one there! Cursing, Youji picked up the pale cell of the youngest of Weiß, ready to dial up Aya and report the situation. Ready to take the blame, since it was clearly due on him. Emerald eyes once again searched across the roof for the genki teen, faintly hoping that Omi was merely hiding to surprise him upon arrival. No such luck.   
  
"Omi? Where are you?!"   
  
Even as he spoke the words, Youji knew the answer. In the hands of Schwarz. Exactly where he should not have been.   
  
  
  
**Author's Note:**   
This is, yes, only the first chapter. I'm hoping to work on the following chapters within the next few days. They will be posted as I write 'em. *grins* As per usual, reviews are appreciated by not required. I do love recieving them, as the words within help me to refine my style and portrayal, thus, hopefully, making my stories in general that much more better.   
  
I thank you for reading this first chapter, and hope you enjoyed! More is coming, this I promise. 


	2. Wortspiel

Weiß Schrecken

> **Disclaimer:** Weiß Kreuz and all associated and registered trademarks are copyright Project Weiß and associated firms. In the writing of this fanfiction I am making no claim or stake in the profits of it. In other words, I don't own these sexy bishounen, and I don't intent to. Get it? Got it? Good.   
  
**Weiß Schrecken**   
  
_Chapter Two: Wortspiel_   
  
--------------------   
  
Smack!   
  
The sound was like a mallet hitting a raw steak and carried through the split silence of the mission room. Thrown back by the force of the blow, Youji raised a hand to his cheek, covering the already forming red mark from Ken's fist. Emerald eyes overlaid with surprise from the sudden strike stared into the mixed blue green of the brunet's, seeing anger burning within. Straightening, the lanky blond slowly lifted his hand, resettling his ever present sunglasses over the bridge of his nose. "It wasn't my idea or want for this to happen, Kenken," he said evenly, staring over the rim of said sunglasses.   
  
"No, but it was your watch he was covering when it happened, Youji!" Ken shot back, fingers still clenched into a tight fist, his knuckles pale red from the force of the punch laid to the playboy's face. "And because of your flirtatious nature, Omi's missing!"   
  
Having stood quietly back, no fool to try to singly break up a fight between two trained assassins, Aya's violet eyes opened, looking directly at Ken. "Omi is hardly missing," he said, the voice of calm in the strained situation. "There is only one place he could be and that is with Schwarz. We find Schwarz, we find Omi."   
  
That same angry gaze that had held no remorse at striking down the wire-wielding member of Weiß turned and laid itself on Aya's form, a frown on Ken's face. "Unless you have a map to lead us to them, Aya, we're still in the same position," he retorted hotly. "Schwarz has Omi, and we have no idea where Schwarz is! Back at square one before we even left it!" Rather than letting his rage get the better of himself and his team mates, the claw-bearing assassin spun and drove his fist into the wall. Literally. Pieces of gyproc followed his fingers as he withdrew them, glaring back at Youji once more. Anger and frustration flooded through him. Anger that the playboy had not been around when Omi needed help, when he should have been there. Frustration that the youngest member of Weiß had been taken without a trace. Omi was like a little brother to him, and Ken was very protective of him, always there to help whenever the youngest needed it. And to know that the teen was in the hands of their enemies, specifically the one that took special pleasure in screwing with them, was driving his anger well beyond breaking point. "So, what the fuck do we do now?"   
  
"We find Schwarz." Certainly a simple answer, and logical; it could only have come from Aya. That man knew how to state the obvious, if impossible to achieve, truth. "Ken, you have the best working knowledge of computers with Omi gone; try to track them down." Violet eyes met the angered gaze of the brunet, an 'ask no questions, receive no glares' look on the supposed leader of Weiß's face.   
  
Nodding, Ken glanced at the computer at the back of the room, already painfully missing Omi's hacking skills. Finding Schwarz. Talk about asking the impossible. "And what will you two do?" he asked, his temper somewhat back under his control as a passable plan of action began to form.   
  
"What else?" Youji commented, rubbing his cheek delicately. "We can't just drop everything. Koneko still needs to be run in the kid's absence, and we can't afford to look too suspicious, so we'll keep the damn store open." Brushing back the golden strands of hair that the mini-brawl had pushed out of place, the playboy chanced once glance at each Weiß member before heading up the stairs. "And right now, I need some sleep, and ice to stop this from bruising up. Though I'm sure I could get plenty of pity dates if it did."   
  
Tossing on his smirking grin, Youji disappeared up the stairs, his pace quickening as he headed to his apartment. He wasn't about to show it to the others, but Omi's disappearance already had him on ragged edge. He couldn't stop hearing the German's voice, replaying the same statement over and over again. Just as he could not stop blaming himself for not being there on time. Damn everything, it would have been better for him to be up there for Schuldich to find. Anyone BUT Omi! That telepath had already had his time with playing mental games with the youth. And the thought of Schuldich having Omi in his cursed hands was almost too much for the playboy to bear. At that point in time, Youji would have given absolutely anything and everything to have switched placed with the genki kid.   
  
Slamming his door behind him, the blond dug for his pack of smokes, shakily bring one out and jamming it between his lips. Kami... Omi alone with that bastard. Digging out his lighter, he managed to light the cancer stick, taking a long drag from it. Damn him and his obsession with being the ladies man. Because of it, he'd been delayed, and now... Omi... was gone. Clenching his fist, he drove it against his door, muttering a curse. And it was all because of him.   
  
*   
  
Very slowly, at the pace a snail could easily have rivaled, the world was coming back to Omi as the youth began to pull himself back into the realm of the awake. The first thing he was aware of was the fact he was lying on something cold, hard, and flat; the floor of a room of some sort, or a cell. With care to avoid being blinded by any bright lights, the teen's sapphire eyes slowly drew open, blinking as he forced them to focus. It seemed that care was wasted, for there was little light at all to illuminate the room, much less enough to blind the unwary eye. But that low light, from a single, half burned fixture in the ceiling, was just enough to allow him to view his surroundings. He seemed to be in a small room, bare of walls and floor, and furniture for that matter. The cement floor he lay on was covered in a network of cobweb cracks, well in need of replacement from the strains of wear had been placed on it. His back was up against a wall, and the faint pain towards the rear of his head suggested that he had been carelessly thrown there and that the wall had stopped his motion. Shifting in order to get a better view of his cell, Omi found his actions greatly restrained. His arms were pulled behind his back and held tight in place by loops of rope that refused to give enough slack to allow motion. Further attempts to move proved that his feet had been similarly tied, to keep him from getting up and running, as though he could run anywhere. And last to note was that he had been gagged, a strip of foul tasting cloth shoved against his mouth to keep him from calling for help. Or making too much noise.   
  
Pulling at his bonds, and knowing full well he would probably have a good case of rope burn for it, Omi tried to shift more. Finally, he managed to pulling himself to his knees, leaning his back against the wall as he recovered from the effort. Whoever it was who had restrained him with rope had certainly known how to do so to allow minimal motion.   
  
_//Guten tag, Kätzchen. Welcome back to the world of the living.//_   
  
Sapphire eyes widened as the telepathic message carried through his mind, filled with the nasal tones he knew too well. _Schuldich!_ Being unable to speak, his words were only in his mind, yet that could hardly matter with the German around.   
  
_//Glad to see you remember me, Kätzchen. Not that I thought you'd ever forget me, little murderer.//_   
  
This time the mental phrase was accompanied by a soft chuckle as the door opened, spilling light into the darkened room. A shadowed figure stepped through the frame, closing the panel of wood behind him. In the again dim light, Schuldich's features were barely visible, his normally vibrant hair dulled by the lack of light. With the grace and speed of a cat, the man crossed the small room to stop in front of the genki assassin, kneeling down to his level, his ever-constant smirk playing on his features.   
  
To Omi, being anywhere near Schuldich was too close for comfort, and the man being less than two feet from him was only worse. Fighting against the ropes holding him in place, he tried to shift away from the fire-haired male, all while his mind was working, trying to figure out what the hell had happened.   
  
Another chuckle escaped that constant smirk, jade eyes staring into the deep blue one's of the youth. "It's quite obvious, Kätzchen, isn't it?" Schuldich inquired. "I merely picked up that which Weiß no longer wanted."   
  
Endless blue eyes narrowed as Omi took in the words. _What the hell is he talking about?_ Mused silently once more, the bitter tasting cloth still holding his words in, the unspoken thought was laced with confusion.   
  
The jaden eyes assumed the look of a predator watching their prey. "I'm talking about how Weiß left you up there for me," he replied, trying to assume an innocent seeming air. With Schuldich, however, it was a failure; the man was no more innocent than Omi was evil.   
  
_Left me? Lying bastard! I was taking my turn at watching for the target!_ By this point, Omi's mind was filling with surprised anger as the youth struggled further against the ropes burning into his wrists.   
  
"Your turn?" Mocking this time, the voice echoed in the near silent room, bouncing again and again back to the youth and his captor. "Tell me, Kätzchen, wasn't your turn over two hours before I arrived? Wasn't someone else supposed to replace you so you could rest?"   
  
_Youji-kun... Demo, he was just held up!_ No matter how hard he struggled, the teen could not pull himself free of his bonds. That hardly stopped him, of course; he just kept fighting, pulling, struggling. Anything to get free.   
  
A deep throated chuckle split the air. "Held up? Ja, perhaps that could be true to cover a few minutes," the German mused, settling back on his haunches like a cat watching the mouse it was stalking. "But two whole hours? Nein, Kätzchen, he was not held up. He did not want to show up in the first place. None of them did. They just wanted to leave you there, alone, while they hoped for the worst."   
  
_There's no way to prove that. It's just a lie, just like him. Always the liar!_ His wrists were truly starting to hurt, yet Omi kept pulling. He wanted to get free, away from the words. To find a way to shut the German up before he started to make any more sense than he already was.   
  
"Why tell a lie when the truth tastes so much better, ja?" More deep laughter graced the teen's ears, Schuldich shaking his head as though he were speaking with a child rather than a full-fledged, if young, assassin. Shuffling his weight to be closer to the boy, the telepath leaned in, emerald eyes meeting sapphire in a battle to find which held more truth. "As for proof, Kätzchen, think for a moment. Who was it that suggested the watches be solo? Hadn't that suggestion been counter to what you had just said?"   
  
Omi blinked, startled by the different tactics put in use by the telepath. He could recall the discussion between Weiß about how to go about the shifts of watching the penthouse, and what he remembered made him pale. They had been facing the problem of the target not being home often, so Ken had suggested watching the penthouse for when he did return. The idea had seemed intelligent, so there had been a discussion about how to go about it. He had suggested two of them to a shift, for safety's measures and for a while, it had seemed like that would work. Then Youji had informed them that it was a stupid idea and that it would only create suspicion if only two of the 'florists' were running the shoppe, rather than the usual three. Points were made that only furthered Youji's comment and, in the end, he had been outnumbered and the watches were deemed to be cone singly. What made him pale was not the discussion, but the fact that YOUJI had been the one to suggest single shifts. Youji, the one who had been absent up on the roof. The one who should have been there to replace Omi when Schuldich had captured him. Youji... Kami... No! It couldn't be true! Despite his resolve, the youth's eyes began to mist over as even the thought of being betrayed by his friends ate at him.   
  
"What a hypocrite you are, Kätzchen," Schuldich commented. "You say you fight for truth, and yet now you are trying to deny that which you know is true. Mein Gott, don't you ever confuse yourself doing that?" Brushing back his fiery hair the German once more turned those cat-like eyes on the youth, spotting the forming tears. _And round two is mine. Me: two. Weiß: zero._ Long fingers reached out to brush at those forming tears, the young assassin shuddering at the touch of his most hated enemy. That smirk never lost its place on Schuldich's face as the man stood. "I'll leave you to think on that, ja, Kätzchen?"   
  
Fighting the desire to brush away every last feel of the German's fingers, knowing that it would only hurt him more, Omi watched with confused eyes as the telepath left, dropping him back into the solitary darkness. Abandoned and left alone... No, it couldn't be! Weiß would never betray him!   
  
... Would they?   
  
  
  
**Author's Note:**   
  
  
  
Whee, finally finished chapter two! Explanations why it took so long? Well, I kind went into shock as some really positive feedback and sorta just... stood around like a baka for a long time. So, now it's finished and chapter three is pretty much fully formed in my head. Lil' Omi fans out there, you might hate me when it's written though. *hides* 


	3. Verletzend

Weiß Schrecken

> **Disclaimer:** Weiß Kreuz and all associated and registered trademarks are copyright Project Weiß and associated firms. In the writing of this fanfiction I am making no claim or stake in the profits of it. In other words, I don't own these sexy bishounen, and I don't intent to. Get it? Got it? Good.   
  
**Weiß Schrecken**   
  
_Chapter Three: Verletzend_   
  
--------------------   
  
A single pale amber eye viewed the screen of the laptop, watching the feed from the camera hooked up to Omi's cell. Schuldich was having another one of his sessions with the kid, steadily convincing the genki fluff that Weiß had abandoned him and wanted nothing to do with him. The German was an absolute artist with words, one had to admire him. Yet, despite all the speaking, that little assassin still retained that innocence about himself and some form of belief that his team mates had not abandoned him. That brought a frown to Farfarello's lips as he leaned over Nagi's shoulder to glare at the video image. "God likes this one," he murmured.   
  
Suppressing the urge to shudder as the Irishman's voice reached him, Nagi focused on his typing. The white-haired man was freaky, to say the least; the telekinetic had never enjoyed being around him. A good fighter he might be, and valuable to Schwarz, yes, but that didn't make him any less creepy. "God seems to favor the innocent," he spoke evenly in response, deep blue eyes staring at the screen.   
  
"Then God favors wrong." Drawing out his extendable blade, Farfarello idly pulled it down the tender flesh along the inside of his arm. The blade went deep, missing the major veins and arteries, yet the madman hardly felt a thing. More like a feather's touch than the burning edge of a sword. The curse of his existence; he so longed to hurt God, yet his body, God's creation, never could hurt. It was a damning fact.   
  
Lovely, now the man was bleeding. If any blood got on his new laptop, the young telekinetic would have to kill the psycho, regardless of whether or not he was valuable to Schwarz. "Perhaps you should teach God a lesson then," he replied. "Instead of complaining about it."   
  
There was a thought. Straightening, Farfarello let the hand holding the blade drop to his side, blood slowly dripping to the floor by his feet. God had yet to acknowledge his sins; perhaps if he toyed with that innocent angel Schuldich had captured he could finally truly hurt God.   
  
_//Interesting proposal you have forming there, Farfie.//_   
  
That singular amber gaze focused again on the laptop. Schuldich, his customary smirk plastered on his face, had stood and faced the camera; in the background, Omi was huddled in the corner he had chosen as his own, tears sliding down his face as the German's words sunk in, hurting him more than any weapon could. _Have you finished toying with that angel?_ Emotionless for the moment, the Irishman's eye was focused on the bound and gagged assassin.   
  
_//Ja, I have. For now. Care to try your hand at breaking his wings?//_   
  
The edges of his lips turned upwards in a faint, predatory smile. _It would hurt God._ Watching as Schuldich left the room, Farfarello turned his face to view the German as he closed and locked the door once more.   
  
Strolling casually towards the two Schwarz members, Schuldich brushed his burnt orange hair back from his face, nodding. "Ja, ja, it would, Farfie," he commented aloud, again using his toy name for the insane killer. "A great deal of pain it would cause God."   
  
That faint smile grew as the Irishman contemplated the concept. To suggest that attempting to give God a hard time was a hobby of Farfarello's would be an extreme understatement; the man made it his life to screw over God, wanting revenge and acknowledgement for his sins. And lying in front of him was the perfect chance to do so. "Then I will break his wings so that he can never fly," he announced, moving with even strides towards the door that separated him from the little angel that would soon be his to break.   
  
*   
  
Four days. Four days and he had nothing to show for it. Muttering a curse, Ken leaned back in the computer chair Omi so often frequented, missing the genki assassin's computer skills far too much. How the hell the kid managed to find all the needed mission information in the short time he took utterly stumped the brunet. Then again, Omi probably went to work with his mind clear, whereas all Ken had been able to think about was Omi, and worrying that the teen was hurt, or worse, even dead.   
  
"Fuck!"   
  
Shouted, the word echoed through the mission room. He probably should not have been so loud, but the soccer player could not have given a damn had he been paid too. It was early morning, Aya was manning the shoppe alone. Youji had stumbled in a few hours ago, dead drunk, as he had been since the day that Omi went missing. Ken shook his head. Of all of them, Youji had taken the situation the worst, blaming himself for Omi's situation. And when the playboy took to self-blame, there was only one way he could dull the pain, apparently. Drinking himself silly every damn night, stumbling in during the early hours and sleeping the day, and his hangover, away.   
  
Scowling, Ken placed his hands over the keyboard again, retracing his latest steps to see where the hell he'd gone wrong. By some sheer stroke of luck, he had happened upon some hidden files that belonged to Schwarz, and he had spent the last twelve straight hours working at trying to trace their locations. He was dead tired, but there was no way he was going to give up until he succeeded in tracking them down. He refused to let them have the youngest assassin, the one he could only wish to have as a little brother, without a damn good fight.   
  
The sound of feet padding down the mission room stairs fought with the tapping of the keys for dominance in the air as Aya came down, calm, cold eyes watching as Ken went to work. The ruby-haired assassin had heard Ken's exclamation and excused himself from the shoppe, letting Momoe take over while he checked on the young soccer player. "Any progress?" he asked evenly.   
  
"Not a fuckin' damn step forwards," Ken retorted, brushing a hand through his dark hair. "I'd almost say two damn steps back, for all the shit this thing is feeding me." Screen after screen of useless information tracked past his untrained eye as he attempted to weed out the false from the truth.   
  
A pale skinned finger struck the screen, tapping against one particular entry as Aya peered at the words with his violet gaze. "Try this one," he commented. Straightening, he let the ex-J-leaguer work, never once showing his true emotion on the outside. Omi's capture had them all on edge, though Aya masked it best of all. Still, he was worried about the golden haired boy who showed so much passion and energy for life. Schwarz would pay for trying to darken the light that Omi spread with his presence. Aya would make sure of that.   
  
Nodding, Ken went to work, reading the information on the entry Aya specified, tracking it down as fast as possible. _Let this work. Fuck, let this work. If this doesn't work, I'm going to kill something, and it won't be me, damnitall!_ There was a beep and the faint hum of the computer working, causing Ken to pause in his rabid typing. An affirmative response on the trace popped up and he grinned.   
  
"Bingo!"   
  
The jubilation of victory quickly faded as the video feed mirrored on Nagi's laptop appeared on screen, displaying Omi, ropes binding his arms and legs together, with a strip of cloth gagging him, laying curled up in the corner of a dark room. Even without sound it was not hard to tell that the teen was crying; his shoulders shook with forced silenced sobs, faint tears splattering on the ground, released from the sapphire eyes hidden under his wheat colored bangs. The sight made both assassins' blood run cold.   
  
"What the fuck have they done to him..." Anger building in him, Ken watched the image, forcibly entranced by it. Part of him was overjoyed at seeing the genki teen still alive, if in bad shape. The other part of him was screaming for the blood of the ones who had done that to the young assassin.   
  
"Where is the feed coming from?" Aya demanded, ever the calm one, even as he silently swore to kill Schuldich for doing that to Omi. "Trace it."   
  
Startled out of the daze the video had placed him in, Ken nodded once more, diving back into his half-skilled hacking. A warning beep sounded as the machine informed him that he had been noticed and the person manning the laptop at the other end of the line was working to kick him out of there. "Damnit... The ironic bastards are holed up in that same damned hotel we were using as a watch point," he reported as the information came up. "Hiding in the damned basement!" Before he could read off more, the screen went dark, his computer cut off from the other suddenly.   
  
"Get Youji," Aya said calmly before Ken could react. "Tell him we're going to get Omi back." Closing his violet eyes, the ruby-haired assassin turned away, heading up the stairs to don his mission gear and retrieve his katana. Weiß had a mission, and they would not stop until their youngest was back and safe with them.   
  
*   
  
The words couldn't be true. They just couldn't be. Weiß would never betray him; they wouldn't abandon him for Schuldich to pick up, like some unwanted kitten. But why, if that was false, did it hurt so much to consider? Huddled against the corner, trying to gain some sort of reprieve from the thoughts that the German got his mind working on, Omi knew the answer to his own question. Schuldich had too oft pointed out truthful occurrences that supported the idea that Weiß had abandoned him. And despite his best attempts to find some other reason to explain everything, Omi found his resolve weakening. It would be so easy to just accept the words as truth; it would hurt so much less. And that thought was what was making him cry, tears sliding down his normally bright and genki face. His sobs were forcibly choked back, the gag never once having been removed from blocking his mouth.   
  
After the first day, he had given up on trying to squirm free of the ropes. His wrists and bonds were tainted by the crimson blood that had surfaced from the repeated abuse of his skin; it hurt to even move them now, thus he barely bothered to try. Besides the pain of motion, the teen was beginning to lack the energy for anything, even crying. It had been four days without food or water, interspersed with faint bits of sleep that could hardly be termed refreshing. He was nearing his limits and about to give up. No one was coming for him; Weiß would have appeared long ago had they wanted to get him back. He was alone, in the hands of his enemies, abandoned by his companions.   
  
More tears slid down his face, dropping to a floor that should have been sparkling clean for all the liquid the past four days had brought to it. It seemed that each time he managed to stop crying, Schuldich would come back in and talk some more to him. And each time would bring him closer to the edge of utter collapse. Each time made the German's words sound more truthful than the last. And each time would destroy every resolve he had to not cry, leaving him in tears once more. Would it ever end? There wasn't a moment when he didn't want it to, and there were often times where he would have gladly killed himself to be free of the painful truth in the telepath's little speeches. But life wouldn't leave his body, keeping him firmly in reality, where pain also ceased to give him a respite from its constant presence.   
  
A crack of light appeared in the room as the door opened, widening as the hinged creaked from the motion. A human's shadow was cast in the room, the person stepping in and shutting the door again, dropping them into the near darkness that had been haunting the young assassin since his capture. Twisting his head to search for the intruder, he mentally pleaded that it wasn't Schuldich arriving with more words to torment him.   
  
_//Nein, nein, Kätzchen. I'm taking a coffee break, so this one's come to take my place.//_   
  
The mental words, nasal as always and covered with that constant accent, cut through him, driving a cold stab of fear into the boy. He recognized the man who was approaching, a thin-bladed knife in hand. Farfarello. The one who had killed Ouka. The man who had constantly proven to be a nearly impossible to defeat enemy; one of the bad people who just refused to die. And the man who was currently the only other person in the room with him. He had a sinking feeling that it was a far from good thing.   
  
Closing the distance between them, the calm face of Farfarello lowered to his level, the Irishman kneeling before him, a soft smirk plastered on his face. That single amber eye contained the glint of foreboding intentions, chilling Omi's slight hope to breaking point. What an innocent little angel; God must truly love him. One scarred hand reached out, fingers gracing the youth's chin, turning the tear streaked face towards him. Those sapphire eyes, so filled with despair. He would be certain to add pain to their blue depths. That would make God cry. Still holding that delicate, unmarred chin, the madman's other hand, knife held within his grasp, raised up. A soft whimper escaped the boy as the blade's point rested on his cheek, a faint blood spot appearing beneath the metal that was digging into his skin. The sound was like soothing music to him.   
  
"God favors you," he informed the scared and broken little boy in front of him. Keeping firm pressure on the blade, Farfarello pulled it downwards; skin parted and blood followed the sharp point's path. Another soft, muffled cry escaped the delicate angel. Leaning back on his heels, the white-haired man smiled and pulled the blade back, licking the crimson fluid that marred it.   
  
Oh, yes, God was hurting now; and He would hurt a great deal more when he was finished.   
  
  
  
**Author's Note:**   
  
  
  
Okay, well, chapter three turned out... differently than I had originally thought it might. And took longer too. *sighs* Sorry for the delay. -Hopefully- chapter four will be finished faster. And, yes, I do try to keep a pretty constant length/size to each chapter; helps me stay organized. Just in case you noticed and were wondering. *grins* 


	4. Zurückziehen

Weiß Schrecken

> **Disclaimer:** Weiß Kreuz and all associated and registered trademarks are copyright Project Weiß and associated firms. In the writing of this fanfiction I am making no claim or stake in the profits of it. In other words, I don't own these sexy bishounen, and I don't intent to. Get it? Got it? Good.   
  
**Weiß Schrecken**   
  
_Chapter Four: Zurückziehen_   
  
--------------------   
  
God was definitely weeping by now.   
  
Shame that the little angel wasn't.   
  
Damn.   
  
It would make it so perfect if he would shed those innocent tears to mix with the blood. It would kill God. But the angel was too stubborn, still somehow defiant even as his body was torn open by the blade of a sinner.   
  
Farfarello frowned. He wanted to hear that voice broken in sobs, see those tears falling and turning red. He wanted to hear God's angel cry; it would be like hearing Him cry. But the little one had stopped crying soon after he began; the pain, it seemed, hurt less than the betrayal that Schuldich had convinced him as being truth. Golden tones shaded his eyes as he observed the innocent angel, his mind turning on how to make those wanted tears falling with only the twist of his blade, not his words.   
  
Once bright and fluffy, golden hair now hung limp, little streams of blood tracing down from small cuts and scrapes made to that perfectly innocent skin in attempts made to assure the madman Farfarello that his angel did indeed bleed red. Crimson stained that soft skinned cheek, traces of it drawn away by the tears that had fallen. Those tears still hung at the soft edged lashes of the angel's eyes, lids slid shut over those deep sapphire irises that had reflected so much pain and anguish when he had begun. More blood wound down the angel's soft neck, branching off into a network of trails that stained red the pale skin. The ebony shirt that had hung on his wiry frame, dulled by the captive's stay in the musty room, covered the angel poorly, bits of it still hanging on, but most of it shredded beyond recognition, the skin beneath covered in a web of cuts that allowed more blood to stain the floor. The broken child's shorts still hung in nearly one piece, only a few tears in it were apparent, giving glimpses to shredded skin below. The smooth and slender legs were mostly untouched, the trails of blood staining the skin more from the wounds on his torso.   
  
The ropes and gag lay in pieces to the side, discarded early on so that the Irishman could better see the perfection he was going to ruin. Forced open rope burns dripped even more ruby liquid to the unforgiving cement below, threading thin trails between limp fingers before giving in to gravity and plummeting downwards. There was a pool of crimson at Farfarello's feet, something that was deeply hurting God, as much as it hurt the young one before him.   
  
"Does God still favor you?" The words carried the strong accent of the Irish as Farfarello eyed his toy, idly licking that delicious red blood from his knife. A single amber eye watched the child tremble at the mention of God. God had been put to blame for this many times already, and the golden-haired beauty was starting to fear the name. Good; fearing His name hurt Him.   
  
Pressing his back against the wall, Omi slowly opened his dulled sapphire eyes to see what was happening; Farfarello was slowly consuming his blood and enjoying it. It made that small knot of fear in his stomach tighten a notch, throwing his already delicate and poor appetite back further. If he ever survived this, he may never want to eat again.   
  
"Well?"   
  
The Irishman wanted an answer it seemed. What was he supposed to say? The young white hunter had been introduced to a new kind of Hell in the past four days, finding that the demons from the outside only made worse his terrifying inner demons. And now this. Did God ever favor him? Casting his gaze to the spreading ruby pool beneath his worn runners, the teen said the only thing that he could. "There is no God." Broken tones accompanied the voice that had been worn down by endless crying, those once vibrant blue eyes losing more of their light.   
  
Those were the wrong words; of all the things the angel could have said, that was the least intelligent. Fury clouded that single eye of the psychopath and his arm came up quite suddenly, the back of his hand sweeping across in a forceful arc, smacking the delicate skin of Omi's cheek, right where his initial cut to the soft tissue had been. Knuckles driving into that wound, he tore his hand further and then let it drop, crimson staining the bandages wrapped on his hands. But that was hardly enough. This child had just said that God did not exist. He was wrong, God DID exist, and He had taken away everything Farfarello had held. Farfarello wanted revenge for the sin done to him, wanted the God who hurt him to weep. And there was a God; only God could have done to his family what had been done!   
  
A low growl came from his normally still throat as he raised the hand holding his blade, pressing it against the angel's shoulder. Farfarello did not often come to anger, and when he did, it had been learned that being in his way during the mood was the least intelligent thing possible. A slight smile curved on his scarred lips as he looked into those deep blue eyes. "God doesn't want you to hurt, little angel," he spoke, his voice dark and low. "God smiles on you even though you reject Him. This is wrong and He will weep for it." There was a faint click and the sound of metal sliding against metal could be heard, following by the sickening sound of flesh being torn and the crunch of bone being shattered.   
  
Omi's eyes went wide, pain screaming through him as the blade extended, biting through his shoulder and bone to penetrate the wall behind him, pinning him there. By some miracle, he managed not to scream as the flesh was torn through and broken, not even when his knees buckled, throwing all his weight onto that blade, though a broken whimper broke through pale lips as a tear freed itself to show the agony he was currently in.   
  
"Do you think He is crying for you yet?" the Irishman asked, leaning in to lick some of the surfacing blood off of the teen's face. That smile faded, replaced by a frown when the youth shuddered and refused to give more than a token whimper to the pain he was inflicting on God's child. The grip he had on his blade tightened as he pressed the weapon deeper. He wanted to hear a scream that would make Him tremble and weep. Throwing all of his strength into it, Farfarello wrenched the blade that was still embedded in firm flesh, twisting it to tear open the wound and release more of that crimson liquid that summoned up God's tears.   
  
That was it, his limit. All resolves and self-assured promises faded away in that moment of pure and utter agony. Despite his desire to the contrary, Omi let loose a scream that echoed in and beyond his small cell. A scream of terror and pain beyond the imagination and ability of a normal human. A scream that would certainly make Him cry.   
  
*   
  
Each step he took made a faint thud that sounded like thunder within the fragile bounds that was currently Youji's mind. Despite having downed four Tylenol after Ken had informed him they were going to get Omi back, the playboy was still under the effects of a massive hangover. Yet, despite the driving pain each small sound incited within his skull, the blond kept forcing himself onwards. He had to get to Omi. The kid had been gone four days, God only knew what condition he was in. Aya and Ken had refused to show him the short bit of video they had managed to nab of the kid. All he knew was that he was still alive, somehow, and still with Schwarz. And those bastards would pay for it. But getting Omi back mattered above all. Ever since the genki kid had been taken, Youji had been drinking himself stupid, blaming himself for the entire incident. Swearing revenge on Schuldich for whatever might happen to the young assassin while he was captive. He'd been obsessing over his stupidity instead of trying to fix it. That was changed; now he was going to make up for his mistakes and get the kid back.   
  
Following behind Youji, Ken's mind was focused on killing something, ANYTHING, just killing. That video feed played over and over in his mind. Omi bound and gagged, trying to cry through a foul rag. Whoever had caused that was going to die. The blood rage of Siberian was in effect and wouldn't boil down under the crimson tone of his opponent's life was staining the claws of the tiger. The sharp sound of his Bugnuk extending and retracting in an endless cycle filled the air, helping Youji's hangover none, yet no one tried to stop it. It was a sign that Ken was ready to kill, and that getting in the way was the worst thing that could be done.   
  
Aya was last, sheathed katana held in his gloved hand; violet eyes searched the corridor they were moving down. The basement of the hotel, the current lair of Schwarz. Omi was down here somewhere, and they had to find him before it was too late. The stoic assassin was having his own difficulties forgetting the image of the crying boy, so instead of trying to banish it, he embraced it, promising blood for blood. Whoever broke the youngest of Weiß would be broken for it. Of that he was certain.   
  
Reaching a T-branch in the hall, Youji glanced back; Aya and Ken knew where they were going, he was merely taking the lead because he refused to let anyone else bungle up their charge in a situation that was clearly his own fault. The playboy was taking surprising responsibility in the matter. "Well, which way?" he demanded, careful to keep his voice low.   
  
Debating and recalling the small section of the building's plans he's studied on the way, Ken looked down each extension of the hall, green eyes thoughtful. "Left," he replied, allowing the blond to start down it before he moved, the ruby-haired assassin again taking up the rear.   
  
There was silence as the moved onwards, the only faint sounds being the soft clicking of their shoes on the cement floor and the occasional drip of water from a broken pipe. Then a scream echoed down the hall, reaching the trio and making them freeze. There was no mistaking the voice that uttered the sound of pain and fear; Omi, youngest and leader of Weiß, had. Muttering a curse to whoever had caused that scream, Youji sprinted down the hall, the other two close behind. And, inside, he only prayed he wasn't too late.   
  
*   
  
The consistent tapping of fingers meeting a keyboard muffled out the sound of the approaching assassins, but those laying in wait hardly needed something as simple as audio warning to know that the kittens were about to appear. Ever calm, Nagi worked on his laptop, keeping a midnight toned eye on the small video feed still linked to his computer; Farfarello was enjoying bloodying the boy far too much. It was almost enough to make the young telekinetic sick. Almost.   
  
Schuldich, on the other hand, seemed to be ignoring the telekinetic and the laptop's screen entirely, his jaden eyes covered by flawless lids. His face suggested a state of concentration in the mind of the telepath, as though he were reaching out and searching for something with his thoughts. It seemed that he found it all too soon, for his eyes snapped open and his usual smirk spread across his features. "They're here."   
  
Those words were like a command to action. Nagi cut his laptop from the networks and shut it down swiftly, closing it and pushing it into his small pack. Schuldich moved across the room they had been holed up in for a few days, unlocking and opening the door to Omi's improvised cell. Green eyes watched as Farfarello pulled the blade from the teen's body, seeing the child slump to the ground, one hand weakly clasping at the wound to try and stop the seemingly endless flow of blood.   
  
_//Come on, time to live the angel alone and withdraw before the kitties arrive.//_   
  
The sharp sound of Farfarello's blade retracting again cut through the air as the Irishman nodded. As much as he desired to remain and continue hurting God, he knew the necessity of leaving. Schuldich had been adamant upon that, in organizing their little escapade with the angel. Apparently the German wanted to play with Weiß more than by just killing their youngest.   
  
Wordlessly, the pair left, closing the door once more and dropping the child into darkness as the shadows threatened to claim his weakened mind.   
  
*   
  
When the three eldest of Weiß finally reached Schwarz's temporary hideout, all traces of their enemies were gone. Only the areas cleared of dust and dirt gave any indication that the room had been inhabited recently at all. That and the faint tang of clove smoke that hung in the air, tainting their senses with the essence of vanilla and cinnamon. The telepath of Schwarz tended towards those and it was an irrefutable sign of his past presence there.   
  
First in, Youji held a length of wire within his gloved hands, ready to strangle the first of the psychic bastards he happened to see. Emerald eyes filled with rightful fury searched the room, the pain of his hangover sitting in the deep green tones of his gaze. There was no one present. Uttering a powerful curse, the playboy kicked at the chair Nagi had been occupying only a few moments before, sending it skidding across the floor. "Fuck! Where the hell are they? And where's Omi?!"   
  
The calm stature of Abyssinian filled the doorway as Aya followed the blond in, katana drawn and held in one hand. Violet eyes narrowed, observing the state of the room, the slightly disturbed coating of dust. "They left," he said simply, sheathing the blade and straightening from the defensive posture he'd assumed.   
  
Last in was Ken, vibrant green-blue eyes also searching, but solely for their young friend. His claws had been retracted for the moment, his fingers curled loosely about the metal that would unsheathe them at a second's desire. There was no doubt that he wanted Schwarz's blood, but his priority was making sure Omi was safe before he went to gut the cowardly bastards who had taken him in the first place. "Stay calm, Balinese," he said, trying to keep the anger and worry from his voice. "He must be here somewhere." Of course, what went unvoiced was the worry that Schwarz had taken the child with them when they departed. It had taken four days to find him, and Ken wasn't certain if he could do such again.   
  
It was Aya, with his sharp ability to observe and take notice of even the smallest details, that first noticed the small crimson ribbon slipping out from under the door at the far side of the room. Narrowing his eyes, recognizing the fluid as blood, he moved with steady steps to the door. His saya was used to smash the lock holding the door shut, his foot raising to kick the wooden block open. And what he saw inside caused even the most silent and controlled of Weiß to draw in a sharp breath of surprise and dismay.   
  
The floor was not brown, nor grey, or any tone it should have been; it was stained crimson, covered by blood. Bits of it tainted the walls as smudged handprints and sourceless smears of deep red. Even the poor light of the cell illuminated that crimson tones too well. And there, crumpled in the corner, a hand weakly clasped to the bleeding wound in his shoulder, lay Omi. His normally vibrant sapphire eyes were covered by deathly pale skin, his chest rising and falling in the faintest of manners. It took a moment for Aya to realize that he was indeed still breathing, instead of being dead, as he had feared he had been.   
  
"Omi!"   
  
The exclamation came from Ken, the ex-soccer player forcibly pushing past Abyssinian and run to his fallen team mate's side. The brunet didn't take notice of the liquid that clung to his knees, staining his jeans as he knelt beside the teen; all his concerns were focused on the oft beyond innocent Omi. "Omi? Omi!" The gloves and his weapon of choice were quickly stripped off, the dark haired assassin scrambling to unfasten the orange shirt at his waist. Fingers pulled at the cloth, drawing it into a bundle which he held against Omi's wounded shoulder, carefully pulling the teen's hand away before laying pressure on it. "Come on, kid, give me a sign you're okay," he spoke, his words quick and strained. Pleading to the genki youth to respond somehow.   
  
Pale as a ghost, Youji stood just behind Aya, staring at the broken form of the youngest assassin. All that blood pooled around the unresponsive boy brought a trembling to his form even as nausea rolled in his stomach. The playboy was used to blood, yes, but never so much of a single team mate's spilt in that fashion. The thought of the person who could ever do such a thing with a clear conscience twisted his stomach in a knot, killing any and all faint touches of his appetite. And it wasn't just from disgust, but from anger. When Kudou Youji got his hands on the bastard who'd done that to Omi, there would be Hell to pay, and he'd be handing out the payment. But for now, he couldn't stand to see that sight, lest it enrage him to the point of snapping to anything and anyone. Turning on his heel, the blond left. He was going to be sick, and then he was going to find Schwarz and kill each last one of them. Painfully.   
  
Sighing, Aya turned to watch the playboy leave, a thin eyebrow raising in a questioning manner. Yet, he made no move the stop the elder assassin, knowing and respecting that sometimes a man just needed to be alone to deal. That was how things went too often for himself, and the claimed ice cold man did have heart enough to allow others their needed privacy.   
  
Meanwhile, Ken was leaning over Omi's still form, one arm sliding around the boy's back and help hold him up, the assassin praying for a response. "Come on, Omi, it's Ken," he continued, hoping his words would bring back his young friend. "Give me a sign you're okay, kid. Come on, please!"   
  
Finally the faintest stirrings of motion came from the injured teen, his breath deepening slightly as his eyes forced themselves open, pain and exhaustion shadowing their depths. Red stained lips turned up in a faint, reassured smile. Weiß had come for him; they hadn't abandoned him after all. "You came..." he whispered, his voice faint. "Ken-kun... Aya-kun..." Faded sapphire took in each assassin in turn before falling on the retreating form of Youji, who's posture was clearly that of an angry man disappointed with something. Unknown to Omi was that Youji was disappointed that Schwarz was gone, unable to be beaten into a bloody pulp for their actions. All that the child saw was the hurried exit, and all that he could figure, in his weakened mental and physical state, was that Balinese was displeased that he wasn't dead yet.   
  
And that was just too much for him. The breath lefts his lungs as his eyes fell shut once more, no new breath of air taken to replace the needed oxygen. The teen's body went completely limp within Ken's arms, no response showing when the concerned assassin gently shook him.   
  
"Omi?" This couldn't be happening. Ken watched the boy's chest, seeing no rising or falling, no breaths being taken. Omi couldn't be dead, it wasn't allowed. That just didn't happen, not to one so young. _Kami, don't let him be dead! Please!_ Shaking the still form, he bit his lip. "Come on, Omi, breath for me. Omi... Omi!   
  
"OMI!"   
  
Nothing.   
  
  
  
**Author's Note:**   
  
  
  
*hums and looks innocent* Nope, the story ain't done yet. My apologies on the delay in finishing this chapter. Life caught up, I had to quit smoking cold turkey (now more than a week since my last cigarette *preens*), and I almost ran out of inspiration. Anyways, reviews are still appreciated and greatly desired. And thanks to those who have given feedback. Working on chapter five now; hope to get it finished very soon. 


	5. Wiedererlangen

Weiß Schrecken

> **Disclaimer:** Weiß Kreuz and all associated and registered trademarks are copyright Project Weiß and associated firms. In the writing of this fanfiction I am making no claim or stake in the profits of it. In other words, I don't own these sexy bishounen, and I don't intent to. Get it? Got it? Good.   
  
**Weiß Schrecken**   
  
_Chapter Four: Wiedererlangen_   
  
--------------------   
  
Beep. Beep. Beep.   
  
Steady and monotonous was the sound filling the sparsely decorated, white-washed room. The repeating of one tone again and again, unchanging in decibel or speed. It was enough to drive a person insane, once they'd heard enough of it, and five minutes was more than enough. How Aya had been able to stand it for the years that he had come to visit his sister in the hospital every, single day without going crazy was something Youji couldn't understand. Then again, Aya wasn't exactly your typically 'normal' person. Actually, when one considered his 'shi-ne' mannerisms and obsession with hurting anyone and anything that looked, touched, or existed too closely to his sister, it often became clear that perhaps he was insane in his own way. Of course, no one was ever stupid enough to say that to his face, lest they find a katana lodged in new and painfully interesting places for their troubles.   
  
Slumped in the single chair of the private hospital room, leaning back against the furthest corner from the bed, the playboy looked to the patient laying to deathly still, pale against too-white sheets. Omi looked like an angel, even in his current state, hanging between life and death, with no one knowing which way he would end up going. He was truly a pale, sleeping angel. The dark crimson stains of blood had been washed from his skin, leaving the curves of his body clear again, but he was hardly a figure of bodily perfection. Perhaps before, but not now at all. The time the boy'd spent in the company of Farfarello showed all too clearly on him, lines of slowly healing red marking his skin, mostly covered by bandages to speed up the recovery of his body. And the worst was well hidden by those bandages. When they'd found Omi, his shoulder had been an absolute mess, the bone shattered and blood seeping endlessly from the wound. Not even Ken putting to use his orange jacket so swiftly to try and stop the flow of blood had seemed to help. When they'd gotten him to the Magic Bus Hospital, the word given was that it was a miracle he was alive with the extent of blood loss alone. The boy'd been in intensive surgery for hours, his shoulder requiring such fine care to rebuild and repair. That shoulder laying wrapped up in bandages, a rough cast overlaying the skin to keep the delicately repaired bones from behind displaced.   
  
"Wake up, Omittchi, come on..."   
  
The words from Youji's mouth came slightly slurred, the after effects of drinking too much alcohol affecting his speech. Three days, it had been, and the teen had shown not a single sign of waking up. He'd just lain there, for three days. And each day Youji had come by, asking that same pleading question each time. When no answer came, he'd always gone out to drink himself stupid. Each night. It was becoming a cycle, in which he never became sober. The drinking was to stop the pain of knowing that Omi was laying there, not dead, yet not alive, all because of him. For being late, and for turning back when he'd seen how badly the kid was injured. There was no doubt in his mind that Omi had nearly died at the moment. Ken's calling of the kid's name had drawn Youji back in time to know that he'd stopped breathing. That he'd suddenly just up and given up after having struggled against Schwarz for such a long time. And Youji'd easily figured that it had been his fault.   
  
That reminder brought a stab of pain in his heart, and a scowl to his features. Damnit, he was hurting again, and that meant he was starting to get sober. Stupid alcohol, why couldn't it stay in his system longer? He didn't want to feel anything, damnit. He just wanted to stumble about incoherently and pretend that things were fine when they were not. When they would probably never ever be again.   
  
Dragging himself to his feet, he stumbled across the room to stand beside the bed, a shaking hand reaching out to stroke Omi's cheek softly. "Daijoubu, Omi... It'll be fine," he mumbled out, his features softening into mournful overtones. "And... I'm sorry. Please forgive me."   
  
Silence greeted him, as it had for the last three days. His hand dropped back to his side as he turned away, heading for the door. Time to go kill the pain for another twelve hours, and to hope and pray that Omi would show some sign of improvement by the next time he visited. Supporting himself against the wall as he moved into the hall, the blond didn't notice the ruby-tressed male watching him in silence; all his mind was focused on was how to get to a bar and how to get there damn fast.   
  
Moving his gaze from the drunken figure of Youji, Aya moved into the teen's room, ever quiet, each step an action of grace that none had ever managed to parallel. The playboy was the hardest hit by Omi's condition, going out and getting drunk all the time; the man blamed himself for it all, but whether that was rightful or not Aya made no guesses or allusions to. Yet, the blonde assassin was not the only one affected by the teen's injuries. Ken, in his own fashion, was rather devastated by the youngest's state, withdrawing from the others to play soccer with his shadow, deep in thought on matters none could know. And even Aya had held his own reaction, though his sober features rarely showed it. Only when alone in the boy's hospital room did his guard ever come down, showing the softening of deep violet eyes as he viewed the bruised and broken child laying there.   
  
Moving a chair closer to the bed, Aya sat down on it, watching Omi in silence. So much like his sister the boy now seemed. His chance at life ripped from his grasp, held still by the faintest threads. Like with his sister, the doctor's heavily doubted the genki assassin's survival, the boy sleeping so deep that pulling free of it seemed impossible. Yet, Aya would not give up, as he'd not given up for his sister. There was a chance still, no matter how small, that he would survive, and he had to hold onto that. Weiß was a team, in its own sense, and not even Schuldich could tear them apart, though he had certainly tried.   
  
The soft tones of the male's eyes melded into the dark tones of hate that so many knew him for at the thought of Schwarz's telepathic bastard. So much pain was due to the German for this alone that not even Aya could identify where to begin. He just knew that no one did this to the youngest and even hoped to get away with it. A swift death for the telepath would be a blessing, in his ice-cold eyes...   
  
*   
  
Pain. Still present, starting to be ever present again. Hunched over on his barstool, Youji eyed the shot glass of some sort of alcohol in front of him. He'd stopped caring what exactly it was that he drank, as long as it got him drunk. And fast, and for a long time. That was what mattered; anything to dull the pain or make it go away. It'd be back, but he'd be ready with another shot glass of god-knows-what to make it run. A game of cat-and-mouse, in which he was the mouse, instead of the cat, for once in his life. As long as the painful cat never caught up, he was happy being a Balinese-chu and getting drop-dead drunk just to avoid the hurting.   
  
Yeah, that was right. Cat-and-mouse. Not that he cared, as long as his glass was never empty. Or was rarely empty, because he could forgive a few second lag between shots. After all, he did need to breath air between gulps, right? Right. That worked, he could live with that, in his drunken haze. Anything worked, as long as he didn't sober up, and that was his theory in life. Or at least, since Omi got hurt it was.   
  
Lifting his glass for another shot, the blonde eyed the crystalline cylinder. "Ish empty," he muttered. "Bartender lady, another shot of... this. This stuff. Now." He nodded as he shoved the glass towards the clearly male tender, who gave him an odd look. "Oh... Please and shanks." The afterthought of politeness stumbled out of his slurred speech as he looked with red-rimmed eyes to the man serving drinks. One always had to be polite if one wanted to remain plastered, after all. And he even went as far as fumbling out enough money to pay for his drinking spree so far. Damn, he was on a roll. Now, things might actually look up, if he could just forget the image of Omi laying there, looking like death cooled off. Of course, that thought brought up a dulled strike of hurt. Again. Which he tried to kill by stealing a fellow bar-goers drink for a moment. The other man didn't mind, he was dead drunk. Honest. Not just plastered as Youji was, but absolutely drunk, to the passed out level. Youji envied the lucky bastard. He was no longer able to pass out, with his body adjusting to the alcoholic poison being fed to it. He wanted to, but after downing enough vodka to kill a horse without once falling over, he'd figured his luck was over. Stupid bodily immunity.   
  
Why couldn't he get drunk, damnit? He just wanted for forget and pass out, not be haunted every moment by the memory of the kid nearly dying because of him. Just... forget it. Live his playboy life and pretend he really didn't care. After all, assassins were supposed to die young, Omi was just lucky that he had a chance out of the hellish profession so early. Right? Right. So, if that was right, why did he hurt so much at the thought of losing him? Damnit, there he went again, thinking like he was sober! Drunk, drunk, drunk, damnit! That's what he wanted to be, so he didn't have to think...   
  
"... about Bombay, nein?" Harsh and guttural, there was no mistaking the voice and person that suddenly appeared beside him. One long armed draped itself over Youji's shoulder as the German of Schwarz leaned over the male. The drunk male, who was this man's enemy and had no backup whatsoever if the telepath decided to fight. This could be most problematic...   
  
"Guten Abend, Kätzchen. How are we doing this evening?"   
  
  
  
**Author's Note:**   
  
  
  
Took me a while to find the inspiration, but I finally got it and put it down. I hope you enjoyed this chapter in reading as I did in writing. 


	6. Gegenüberstellung

**Disclaimer:** Weiß Kreuz and all associated and registered trademarks are copyright Project Weiß and associated firms. In the writing of this fanfiction I am making no claim or stake in the profits of it. In other words, I don't own these sexy bishounen, and I don't intent to. Get it? Got it? Good.   
  
**Weiß Schrecken**   
  
_Chapter Six: Gegenüberstellung_   
  
--------------------   
  
Schuldich!   
  
Such would have surely been spoken, had Youji's mouth been moving as fast as his mind. The sudden appearance of not only an enemy, but the very man who was responsible for Omi's current state, at his side helped a great deal with the playboy's manner, snapping some of his mind back to a more alert mode. The alcohol was by no means gone, but the unstoppable surge of adrenaline that accompanied the surprise held it at a greater distance than Youji could have wanted it. After all, being alert meant that he could think, and thinking meant that he could remember Omi, and that hurt. And he was drinking to avoid that hurt, damnit.   
  
However, considering his situation, he had to admit a certain level contentment at that sudden alertness; it meant that he was a little better equipped to handle the German telepath than might have been expected. Not that it could help, seeing as Weiß, as a group, had a hard enough time trying to get in a single shot at Schuldich while sober. Youji would probably be lucky to be able to see the man in some sort of focus, but most likely nothing beyond that. Still, it was better than a kick in the teeth, though if they got into a fight, chances were that the playboy would get such a kick in the scuffle.   
  
Damn drunkenness.   
  
"What the hell do you want?" he finally managed to growl out, shrugging off the arm that had lazily draped itself over his shoulder. Emerald eyes glared into jade ones, anger staring into amusement. Both pools of green held the certain haze of being intoxicated, tainting each depth with a mask of incoherent stupor; it seemed that both had come to the bar to get drunk, and the meeting was a mere coincidence. What fortune... Really.   
  
Lazily, the German shrugged his shoulders, resting his displaced arm on the bar as he claimed the stool next to the playboy, pushing off the unconscious man who had just been occupying it. "You were thinking really loudly about that damn team mate of yours," he complained, his nasal tones picking up a distinct whine. "I wanted to shut your mind up for a bit so I could get some peace and quiet."   
  
Watching the telepath steal another's drink and down it, Youji allowed the scowl that had been trying to surface to taint his lips. "Here's a tip, German mindfucker," he retorted, the growling anger growing in his voice. "Don't touch him next time and I won't have a god damned reason to think about him, now will I?"   
  
Those foreign features twisted up in a look of disgust, the head of fiery hair shaking negatively in response. "Nein, nein; if I leave the boy alone, you'll just think about him in those disgustingly happy and sappy ways," he muttered. "Which is worse; gives me nightmares, all that..." The male paused, a shudder breaking his frame. "... happiness."   
  
Wait a second; back up there. Blinking, Youji cast a glance to the telepath, his sunglasses dropping low on the bridge of his nose in the motion. One slender eyebrow arched, half in question, half in surprise, both in response to what Schuldich had said. Mostly, his response was based on the 'what the hell is he talking about?' concept, the uncertainty in his comprehension of the words dominating above all. "What do you mean by happiness?" he asked guardedly, watching the other closely, as sharply observant as his intoxicated mind could manage.   
  
"Ja, ja, happiness," the German replied, pressing his palms against his temples as though the word along were enough to cause a cavity headache. "All your thoughts about that boy leave such a sour taste in the mind, not at all like honey..." Muttering something about how he wanted a bit of honey-like depression and anger right now, instead of the acerbic taste of the fluffy thoughts that tended to slink about without warning, Schuldich reached out and took the drink Youji had just ordered, thanklessly downing it.   
  
Narrowing his eyes, Youji stole the glass back from the other's slender fingers. Given the ease of the theft, he could realise that the German wasn't currently benefiting from the same sort of adrenaline rush that had snapped back the worst of the intoxicated stupor that had found Youji. That, in consideration, was a good thing, as being so drunk made the telepath half as dangerous as his usual, sober self. Whereas Youji was aware, enough now, of the surroundings, giving him the upper hand in the conversation and situation. Something that he would relish, if he weren't both startled by the German's words and infuriated at the basic audacity of the man's presence after all that had been done to Omi though his will. "That didn't answer my question," he retorted, the dangerous hints of that anger still tingeing his tones.   
  
Blinking, it was Schuldich's turn to look at Youji with that half-confused cloud in his eyes. It took a few seconds for the question reference to click in his mind, at which point he smirked, his whining about happiness fading away at this growing opportunity to screw further with the playboy. Apparently Balinese had forgotten that being a telepath meant that he could read minds, especially pitifully unprotected ones like the white kitten's own. For a multiple date-style of playboy, he didn't have many mental blocks that could keep out a properly prying hand; it was amazing that the male had yet to be caught for his two- or three-timing. "Ja, I suppose it didn't," he replied, nodding slowly. "Tell me, Kätzchen, what you think it means, and I'll tell you if you're right."   
  
The sharp heat of anger was quickly starting to dominate the playboy's mind, made no better by that assuredly confidant smirk stretching lips that so oft spoke of words to torment Weiß endlessly. "Better idea," he snarled, "is that you tell me what it means before I strangle it out of you."   
  
The German paused to consider this, tilting his head unsteadily in thought. In his mind he was turning over the good and bad points to this situation, and trying to make something suitably sadistic rise out of it is possible. After all, life just wasn't life without mental torment mixed in at every possible opportunity. Sensing an opportunity to further the blond assassin's mental anguish, he decided to give in an share his little mysterious secret, the one that Balinese himself had no clue about. Gesturing the shaded-playboy a bit closer, he leaned forward to whisper the words in his ear. "Happiness as in what you feel for that pathetic fluff," he murmured. "The way you feel lighter when he's in the room, how pathetically sappy you want to get when he smiles. Mein Gott, all that cavity making crap that Harlequins are made of, without all the really good sex!" Snorting, his shook his head at the pathetic nature of it all. "At least you stopped thinking that now... Took kidnapping that creampuff and nearly killing him, but at least you shut up and went back to miserable, depressing, honey-like thoughts for a while."   
  
Twitch.   
  
The slight motion was clear in Youji's features, his fingers curling into a fight fist as the brighter emerald tones faded to a near black. When he spoke, his voice was low, dangerous undertones catching and clinging to each word in warning to the telepath. If what he was beginning to connect together was true, then Schuldich had better learn to run fast, for Youji was a few seconds short of losing his barely held cool. "Are you saying that the whole point of kidnapping Omi was to..."   
  
Nodding, Schuldich grinned again, as though immensely proud of his plan and the results it had brought. "Ja, exactly, Kätzchen!" he replied, patting the assassin's shoulder heartily to commend him for linking up points A through C. "You were starting to give me nightmares from all that sap, and Brad thought that the cavity danger was too high. So, I got permission to play a little game to get your minds back in the depressive rut where they belong. Farfarello's involvement was really spur of the moment, though I think that turned out well." Preening a bit, he began to examine his nails, as though expecting compliments to be gushed about the utter perfection of his little plan.   
  
The only thing that ended up gushing was blood from his nose as Youji's fist connected solidly with it, sending the German to the floor as he stood, glaring down at him. Taking a deep breath, the playboy watched him with unmasked fury, absinthe eyes staring over the rims of his sunglasses, fire clear in their depths. Reaching down in one swift moment, he grabbed the telepath's shirt collar, lifting him by it with ease. When one killed people simply by hanging them until they died from sharp lack of oxygen, lifting another by a single hand was hardly a task to break sweat over.   
  
Features set into a deep scowl, he brought the other closer to his level, alcohol tainted breath spilling from his lips, hot and angered from his temper's snap. "You kidnapped Omi and let all... that crap happen to him... just because you had a few bad dreams?" The words came slow, low in tone and halted, anger choking his throat every few seconds. How someone, anyone, even a bastard like Schuldich, could do that was beyond mortal comprehension. To just toy with another's life was a sin beyond all sins, something that Youji wished he could simply kill outright for. Especially in this case, where an unrelated innocent, as innocent as one could be raised as an assassin, was brought into it and hurt for it.   
  
Making a nasal snort at being lifted up, Schuldich didn't bother trying to pry away the hands of Balinese. He far lacked the strength to combat a man who could pick him up with such ease. Besides, it was simply easier to be stood up by another, since his own sense of balance had been wavering during his intoxication. The words of the assassin were again considered, a sleeve covered hand raising to clean away a bit of blood from his nose. "Well, not _just_ because of that," he admitted. "I was growing bored, and his pain always has appealed to me. The best of all honey, and amusing to no end how cutely he goes about these things. The whole 'leave them and me alone' approach is really quite adorable. So, ja, I suppose I had an ulterior motive in that."   
  
This man deserved to die. That was the only thing that wanted to make itself known in Youji's hazy mind. That Schuldich deserved to feel the bite of his wire, to feel his own life slipping away breath by breath, or lack thereof. To pay for every sin in his life, most importantly that of all he did to Omi, attacking the boy time and time again for his own sadistic pleasure. He deserved to die for that alone.   
  
Snarling, both at the telepath and himself, Youji released him with enough force to send the former again to the ground, earning his action a German curse at the roughness of it. Breathing heavily still, attempts to reign in his anger made with each shuddering action, he restrained carefully from the want to just kick the man while he was down. As good as it might have felt, to kick or kill him, Youji knew that it would only bring him down to the other's level. When he had joined Weiß, he'd sworn only to kill another while on a mission, and the foray of getting drunk was hardly official in those terms. Schuldich would live, for now; but damned if Youji did not try to find a reason to make him a mission target for all this sins.   
  
Later, though. Right now he had to get out of there before his carefully held anger snapped once more, taking with it the telepath's neck.   
  
Turning on his heel, the playboy walked towards the door. Still intoxicated, his path wavered a little, but one thing was certain: It never turned to go back and slaughter the German bastard sitting on the floor with the bleeding nose. Even when the taunting nasal laughter rose at his back, mocking his retreat each step of the way.   
  
No, he couldn't kill him yet. One day he would, though, when the time was right and Kritiker gave the word. That was the thought he held onto as he walked, not looking back. He had better things to do than dirty his hands further with the blood of that bastard tonight.   
  
  
  
**Author's Note:**   
  
  
  
Six months and my rabid apologies to anyone who's been waiting for the next chapter. Much has happened in the interim, most of it being college. Done that for another four months, though, so I'm snaring some time to get up new chapters to a number of my fics. WS, being my oldest one, is first on my list. ^^; 


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